what lives in the dark
by katriel1987
Summary: Of course you should be afraid of the dark! [anthology]
1. photophobia

**Title:** Photophobia

**Summary:** Later Sam will remember the way Dean winced, and he'll understand.

**Rating:** T

**Spoilers:** Vague for "Dean Man's Blood"

**Pairings:** None

**Warnings:** Character death

**Category: **Angst, Deathfic

**Word Count:** 320

**Disclaimer:** Not mine; not getting paid; I'm just playing with them.

----

The vampires have had Dean for almost nine hours by the time Sam manages to find their nest. Part of Sam is terrified that he'll find his brother already cold and drained, but he sternly forces himself to cling to hope. Maybe, just maybe, they haven't gotten around to feeding on him yet.

Sam sneaks in during broad daylight, gripping his machete tight, and he almost passes out from relief when he sees Dean tied to a post, a little pale but still definitely alive. Dean's awake, staring blankly at the ceiling, and when he sees Sam his eyes flash with surprise and then desperate hope. Sam creeps up and unties his brother as silently as possible, and it almost seems too good to be true when they escape without waking the sleeping vampires.

They walk out into the bright sunlight, and Dean blinks and winces a little at the sudden change. "Man, it's good to see you," he says with a grin that doesn't quite reach his shadowed eyes. "I thought I was dead meat in there."

"Did they feed off you?" Sam asks, feeling sick at the thought.

Dean shakes his head. "No, they had others—a guy and a girl." He shudders a little, and looks away, but not before Sam sees the haunted expression in his eyes. "It...wasn't pretty."

They've reached the Impala now, and Sam retrieves Dean's Colt and hands it to him, then heads around to the passenger side. Dean stands still and holds the gun, running his fingers almost lovingly over the smooth metal.

"Sammy," Dean says, and the tone in his voice sends a shiver down Sam's spine. He stops, hand on the passenger-door handle, and looks up.

"What, Dean?"

"I'm sorry," Dean says, and puts the gun to his own temple and pulls the trigger.

Later, Sam will remember the way Dean winced when they stepped into sunlight, and he'll understand.

**-end-**

**----**

**A/N:** I have no idea how long it takes to turn vampire, but for this story I'm assuming there's a period of time where people are still human / can still be killed by conventional means.


	2. nothing left to lose

**Title:** nothing left to lose

**Summary:** In hindsight, killing Dean Winchester wasn't the smartest thing Victor Henricksen ever did.

**Spoilers:** General for "Nightshifter" and "Folsom Prison Blues"

**Pairings: **None

**Warnings:** Character death

**Category:** Angst, deathfic

**Word Count:** 400

**Disclaimer:** Not mine; not getting paid; I'm just playing with them.

----

In late summer 2007, Victor Henricksen shot and killed Dean Winchester.

If Victor is totally honest with himself, he knows that he probably didn't have to shoot. The guy _might_ have been going for a gun, but he probably wasn't, and it's a line Victor had never crossed before. But it got a murderer off the streets—_permanently_, this time—so Victor doesn't let himself worry about it too much. Doesn't let himself think about the surprise in Winchester's pretty hazel eyes (killer that handsome and charming _had_ to be a sociopath) or the way he whispered "Sammy" through the blood welling up in his throat. Because yeah, those Winchesters did have a screwed-up family bond going on, and at the end it was kind of pathetic, but it doesn't make them any less sick.

So Victor doesn't think too much about Dean's death; he throws himself wholeheartedly into searching for Sam, but it's like the younger Winchester has fallen off the face of the earth. Again. No surprise there—those Winchesters are sick bastards but they're _good._

Turns out, though, Victor doesn't have to worry about finding Sam, because Sam finds him.

It's three months since they buried Dean, and Victor's almost to his car when a gun barrel presses against the side of his head. Victor has pretty damn good instincts, but the kid—he's like a shadow, like he just appeared out of thin air.

Victor looks at Sam Winchester and knows he's going to die.

Despite everything, Sam had always managed to look somehow idealistic, his young eyes hopeful and almost innocent. He doesn't look like that any more. He looks like the ice-for-blood killer Victor always thought his brother was.

"How'd he die?" Sam asks, low-voiced, and Victor knows answering won't save him, but he answers anyway.

"It was quick," he says, not quite sure why he's talking—stalling, maybe, postponing the inevitable, hoping somebody will come. "He said your name. Said 'Sammy'."

A muscle twitches in Sam's jaw and his eyes glisten and for an instant he's a scared kid who just wants his big brother. Then the instant is gone, and Sam's a killer again, and he puts the gun to the side of Victor's head and pulls the trigger.

In hindsight, killing Dean Winchester wasn't the smartest thing Victor Henricksen ever did.

In fact, it was almost as stupid as underestimating Sam.

**-fin-**


	3. the one that got away

**Title:** the one that got away

**Summary:** The child can't be more than seven, all floppy hair and big green eyes that waver between curiosity and wariness.

**Spoilers:** None (pre-series)

**Warnings:** Um...not much. A little violence. Very mild language. Some creepiness.

**Characters:** Mainly Sammy and an OFC, with mentions of John and a cameo by Dean.

**Pairings:** None

**Category:** Wee!chesters, some angst, a wee bit of humor.

**Word Count:** 880

----

The child can't be more than seven, all floppy hair and big green eyes that waver between curiosity and wariness. He's wearing a too-big t-shirt, threadbare jeans, and a worn jacket that comes down to his knees—definitely hand-me-downs.

She pauses in front of the tall chair she put him in, watching as his feet swing back and forth slightly. His hands and feet are too big for his small frame—he has height in his genes, probably, just waiting to emerge during some far-future growth spurt.

"What's your name?" She asks casually.

He watches her, eyes definitely wary now, mouth clamped shut and forehead wrinkled in an adorably intense way. She knows children, and this child is about as cute as they come, despite his mistrustfulness. It's warm in her kitchen, but he keeps his jacket on, holds it shut with one skinny hand. The broken zipper hangs forlornly, half-torn off.

"Sam," the child replies finally, the word clipped and short, his tone warning that he hasn't decided to trust her. Quite the contrary; he's leaning toward mistrust.

She looks at him, dark brown hair that needs a trim, beautiful child's face already turning thin and angular. There are smudges of dirt on his face and a fading bruise wrapping around his left cheekbone. On impulse, she reaches out to touch his hair; he flinches slightly and some indefinable emotion flickers in his green eyes. She's seen the type before, so starved of a mother's love that they've forgotten they ever needed it. This one is more cautious than most; he's brave, but he knows there are things he should be afraid of.

She lets her hand drop and walks over to turn on the oven. For a moment the only sound is the faint _pop-pop-pop_ of heating metal and Sam's slightly shaky breathing. Finally he asks, in a voice that _almost_ doesn't waver: "Are you going to hurt me?"

She turns back to look at him. His feet are swinging faster now, hand clenched in his jacket so tight that his bony knuckles are white, but no sign of tears. He's brave, this one—perhaps the bravest she's seen yet. He's terrified, but holding himself together admirably for a child his age.

"Yes," she replies. "I'm going to kill you." She doesn't apologize for what she is—never has and never will.

Sam's eyes widen almost comically—the last thing he expected was the truth—and his gaze flickers to the heating oven. Fear sparks bright and his bottom lip starts to tremble and she thinks _here come the tears_, but instead he speaks, voice shaky but strong. "No," he says. "You won't."

She stares at him. Well, _that's_ a new one. She's accustomed to tears and pleading—not the kind of certainty she hears behind the fear in this child's voice. "Why not?" She asks, intrigued despite herself.

His chin comes up and he makes a deliberate effort to stop his bottom lip trembling. "Because my daddy's going to kill you," he says. "And my big brother. He's _eleven._" She's pretty sure that's meant to impress her. It doesn't.

"He's going to _toast your ass,_" Sam continues, all bravado thinly layered over fear. She thinks that must be a phrase he learned from his brother, and she smiles to herself as she turns to check the oven. Too bad she couldn't get the brother too. Of course, he's probably too old. They get tough so fast when they pass ten, she thinks, and sighs sadly.

The oven's still preheating and Sam's courage is starting to crack. He scrambles off the chair and retreats to the far side of the room, where he curls into a little, trembly bundle, long skinny limbs all tucked up under his big jacket. "They'll save me," he says too loudly, voice breaking, tears definitely beginning now. She thinks he's trying to convince himself as much as her.

She shrugs, doesn't contradict him. Let the child die with hope; it's more than most children get in the ugly world out there. She bears no malice toward him, toward any of them; she only does what she has to do to survive. She's even careful to ensure that they don't suffer, which makes her practically a philanthropist among her kind.

She walks toward Sam, and he draws up tighter like a turtle in a shell, tears streaking his face. "Daddy," he says, more an invocation than a plea. "Daddy! Dean! _Dean!_"

She reaches out to him, almost soothing. It will be over quickly. He'll hardly even feel it—

The consecrated iron bullet enters beneath her left shoulder blade and continues into her heart. She gasps, mouth forming a soundless scream as she begins to burn from the inside, skin blackening and flesh peeling away. She never realized it would hurt this much.

Her vision beginning to fade, she sees an older child (the brother) run toward Sam, arms open. Sam uncurls and flings himself at his brother, clinging like a spider monkey while the older boy runs a hand through Sam's hair and murmurs softly.

The last thing she ever sees is Sam looking at her over his brother's shoulder, his eyes shining with a seven-year-old's vindictive glee.

"Told you so," he says smugly.

**-end-**


	4. to death's other kingdom

**title:** to death's other kingdom

**summary:** the emptiness coalesces, grows a face and a name, and he suddenly understands.

**spoilers:** all hell breaks loose part 2

**pairings:** none

**warnings:** minor blood, character death

**category:** angst, future fic, deathfic

**word count:** 300

**disclaimer:** not mine; not getting paid; I'm just playing with them.

**author's note:** title from _the hollow men_ by t.s. eliot.

----

Sam wakes after a month in the hospital (though he won't know until later how long it's been). He wakes with a vague memory of claws, sharp ripping pain, the taste and smell of blood everywhere, Dean cursing and praying and begging _Sammy hang on, just hang on_, Dean's arms holding him together as he bled out. He wakes weak and shaky, with an unfamiliar emptiness hovering at the edge of his muddled thoughts.

The pretty nurse smiles at him (Dean will be hitting on her, if he hasn't already) and the doctor comes in and talks about trauma and blood loss, massive injury and four surgeries and how lucky he is that he'll eventually make a full recovery.

Sam nods slowly, his body still off a few seconds in responding to his commands. The hollow space in his mind hovers like a black hole, like maybe they accidentally removed part of his soul during one of those surgeries. He doesn't know what it is, but it's wrong. Very wrong. He needs Dean. Dean will know how to fix it.

"Where's..." he asks, then trails off, because he was barely conscious when Dean carried him in, screaming for help, and he's not sure whether the hospital thinks they're brothers or cousins or co-workers. "Where's my..."

"Brother?" The doctor guesses, and at Sam's nod he continues, "I honestly don't know. He was here 24/7 until a couple days ago, and then he just disappeared. I think he left a letter for you, though. I'll ask one of the nurses to get it."

The nebulous, indistinct emptiness coalesces, grows a face and a name, and Sam suddenly understands. He asks for the date, but deep down he already knows.

It's been one year and three days since he died in Cold Oak.

**(end)**


	5. mary's child

**Title:** Mary's Child

**Summary:** John loved Mary, and he loved her baby boy.

**Spoilers:** "Pilot", vague for "IMToD"

**Pairings:** Implied Mary/OMC, John/Mary

**Warnings:** AU

**Category:** Gen, AU, oneshot, Bobby POV

**Word Count:** 335

**Disclaimer:** Not mine; not getting paid; I'm just playing with them.

**Author's Note:** My turn to screw with the Winchester family dynamics. Whee.

----

Dean was Mary's child, not John's. Bobby knew this because of one night when John got blind drunk and said things he never would've otherwise. John didn't seem to remember later, and Bobby never mentioned it.

John loved Mary, and he loved her baby boy, took him as his own. He met Mary when she was five months pregnant, and he was there when Dean was born.

Mary captivated John from the beginning. He loved her fiery personality. He loved the deep, protective devotion to family that hid beneath her wild-child persona. (She had a penchant for loud rock music and scruffy, dangerous guys with leather jackets and muscle cars—which was satisfied when she met John.) They got married when Dean was only four months old.

Had Mary lived, they would've told Dean eventually. He would've seen the wedding pictures of the two of them holding him. But Mary died, and the pictures burned, and all Dean had left in the world was the only daddy he'd ever known. John never made a conscious decision not to tell Dean; he just couldn't ever bring himself to do it. Dean was his _son,_ his soldier, his anchor, and John never wanted DNA to detract from that.

Dean was like John in ways—he imitated, learned by example, picked up all he could. He was like Mary in more ways, her child through and through, and maybe there were traces of his biological dad in there somewhere, but Bobby didn't really know what to look for. Maybe that was where the cocky attitude came from, or the horndog tendencies. John, and Sam too, were primarily commitment men, but Dean had no such reservations. His biological father must've been the same way.

Dean was Mary's boy, though, and John's, not the son of some badass, undoubtedly good-looking rebel who hooked up with a pretty blond girl and then disappeared from her life forever. Dean was Mary's son and John's, and Bobby would never, _ever_ tell him otherwise.

**(end)**


	6. good intentions

**Title:** Good Intentions

**Summary:** When Dean came here...did he know he was going to die?

**Spoilers:** 3.02 The Kids Are All Right. Haven't seen it? Don't read this. It won't make sense anyway.

**Pairings:** None really

**Warnings:** Character death

**Category:** Angst, deathfic, episode tag (kinda)

**Word Count:** 400

**Disclaimer:** Not mine; not getting paid; I'm just playing with them.

**Author's Note:** My muse insisted. Blame her.

----

Lisa lied about the blood test. She was fairly certain Ben wasn't Dean's—the odds were against it—and she figured she'd be doing Dean a favor by giving him a clear answer. Until she said it, she thought it was what he wanted to hear; and by the time she saw his disappointment, it was too late to take it back.

She wanted to tell Dean the truth then, but it seemed cruel to give him false hope, since he probably _wasn't_ Ben's dad.

But as Ben got older, more green crept into his hazel eyes, and the sunlight scattered faint freckles across his nose and cheekbones. Lisa couldn't deny it anymore, and she couldn't stop thinking about Dean, about the sadness in his eyes when he'd looked at Ben knowing that he could never be a part of the child's life.

Around the time Ben turned ten, _everything_—the tilt of his head, the way he smirked, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes—started bringing back faint memories of Dean. The kid even started walking slightly bowlegged, and he _definitely_ didn't get that from Lisa. She knew what she had to do.

So she called the number Dean had left—"just in case they ever needed him"—and to her surprise, his brother answered instead. _Sam,_ she remembered—tall and dark-haired with a dimpled smile. Lisa asked for Dean. There was a long silence on the other end.

"Dean's...gone," Sam said finally, his voice weary with aged grief. "He died. More than a year ago."

No. This couldn't be right. Lisa got an awful sick feeling in her stomach, because Dean was _dead_ and she'd robbed him of whatever time he might have had with his son.

She remembered suddenly, the way Dean had looked wistful and talked about leaving something behind, and she had to know. "Can I ask you one thing?" She said. "When Dean came here...did he know he was going to die?"

Another pause, but finally Sam replied, "Yeah. Yeah, he did."

Lisa hung up and went into Ben's room. He was sleeping peacefully, and she sat beside the bed, watched the dim light fall across his face, throwing long dark lashes into stark relief against lightly freckled skin. He was already busy breaking hearts, hers included...just like his dad.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, watching her fatherless child sleep. "I'm so sorry."

**(finis)**


	7. Destiny and Dean Winchester

**Title:** Destiny and Dean Winchester

**Summary:** Since when has Dean Winchester ever done what destiny decrees?

**Spoilers:** "Pilot", "Faith", "Devil's Trap", "In My Time of Dying", "All Hell Breaks Loose Part 2"

**Pairings:** Brief mentions of Dean/OFC

**Rating:** PG

**Warnings:** Character death, but not. Trust me, it has an unusually upbeat ending for me.

**Category:** Angst. AU, but not really. Deathfic, but not really. You'll see what I mean.

**Word Count:** 675

**Disclaimer:** Not mine; not getting paid; I'm just playing with them.

**Author's Note:** This had been languishing on my computer for _months,_ and I finally decided to go ahead and finish it. So here ya go.

- - - -

When Dean Winchester was three years old, he was destined to die at the age of seventy-nine, at the natural end of a long life well-lived. He was destined to marry a beautiful brunette named Melanie and raise three children, two boys and a girl, all of whom would adore their dad even when they were too cool to show it.

He would work in (and eventually own) his dad's garage, invent all kinds of gadgets in his spare time, change diapers without complaining, and play lots of baseball in the back yard (with his daughter as well as his sons). He would love his little brother like crazy even if they didn't always understand each other, and Dean's three kids would grow up with Sam's two.

When Dean Winchester was three years old, he was destined to be a family man—loving, fiercely protective, the patriarch of a clan that by the time he died would include three children, eleven grandchildren and four great-grandchildren. He was destined to grow old peacefully, the deepening crow's-feet around his eyes only adding to the power of his open smile.

He was destined to commit to one woman and to love her deeply, and to die with her at his side, whispering _I love you_ and _It's okay to let go_.

- - - -

When Dean Winchester was four years old, he was destined to die at the age of twenty-seven. He was destined for a few seconds of bright, arcing pain, followed by three weeks of slow, pale decline and a cold blue death in an anonymous hotel room somewhere in the heartland. He was destined to die young, with the sound of his little brother's heart breaking echoing in his ears. His last thoughts would be to wonder why his dad never came.

When Dean Winchester was four years old, he was destined to fall in love once and never make the same mistake again. He was destined for years of bright, empty smiles and one-night stands because he knew better than to get too involved.

He was destined to die struggling to pull breath through cracked blue lips, his heart full of regret that he couldn't protect Sammy anymore.

- - - -

When Dean Winchester was twenty-seven years old, he was destined to die before his twenty-eighth birthday. He was destined to get shredded from the inside out by a demon wearing his father's face, his little-boy pleas for Dad to save him going unanswered until too late. Almost immediately after, still bleeding from the demon's invisible claws, he would get pummeled in a car accident. (He had long since realized that fate hated him.)

He was destined to make it to the hospital, only to succumb to an impressive combination of blood loss, internal injuries, and severe head trauma. He would die of cerebral edema after two days in a coma, leaving behind a devastated father and brother who couldn't live with each other without him to act as their buffer.

When Dean Winchester was twenty-seven, he was destined to finally give in and follow the Reaper, wishing only for one last chance to say goodbye.

- - - -

When Dean Winchester was twenty-eight years old, he was destined to die at a crossroad, his soul ripped from his body and straight into hell. He was destined to die beneath the shattering sound of thunder, blinking against driving rain from the last thunderstorm he'd ever see. He was destined to die alone, leaving an empty shell for Sam to find later.

He would leave behind a car, a shattered brother who'd wanted nothing more than to save him, a grizzled old hunter who loved him like the son he'd never had, and a long line of people stretching across the U.S. who were alive because of him. He would die trying to convince himself that he had no regrets...and then he'd exist for the rest of eternity in a prison made of bone and flesh and blood and fear.

But since when has Dean Winchester _ever_ done what destiny decrees?

**(finis)**


	8. the old ways

**Title:** The Old Ways

**Summary:** Victor Henricksen knows exactly who the Winchester boys are.

**Spoilers:** Vague for "Nightshifter"

**Warnings:** None really

**Pairings:** None

**Category:** Gen, 150-word drabble

**Disclaimer:** Not mine; not getting paid; I'm just playing with them.

- - - -

Victor Henricksen knows exactly who the Winchester boys are, what they do, what their daddy did. Victor's ancestors brought the old ways across the ocean with them, and his mama was a powerful woman. She was fair, too—never spelled anybody who didn't deserve it—but that didn't stop John Winchester from destroying her talismans, burning ancient spellbooks that could never be replaced.

Victor's mama wasted away and died, lost without the power and respect she'd always had, and Victor swore then he'd have vengeance.

He's married now, to a woman who knows nothing of the ancient power once wielded by her mother-in-law. His daughter is cursed to be normal, never commanding the fear and respect that is her blood right. Victor hates the Winchesters for that. Their father might already be dead, but the sons are still alive—and Victor's going to find a way to make them pay.

**(end)**


	9. my own prison

**Title:** My Own Prison

**Summary:** Nothing that lives is destroyed, not completely.

**Characters / Pairings:** Jess, Yellow-Eyed Demon / None

**Spoilers:** "Pilot", "All Hell Breaks Loose 2", a small detail revealed in "Sin City"

**Word Count:** 500

**Author's Note:** I have no excuse or explanation for this. Only that I wrote it when I had a migraine, and I tend to do odd things when I have migraines. Title from the Creed song of the same name.

- - - -

Nothing that lives is destroyed, at least not completely. For the demon Azazel, 'death' consisted of a hell from which there would be no escape, ever.

When he arrived, still writhing in pain from that final bullet, Jessica Moore was waiting for him.

He glared. How dare she intrude upon his miserable afterlife? "What are you doing here?" He demanded.

Jessica smiled and cocked her head sideways, swinging her feet back and forth from her comfortable perch on nothing. "I can go anywhere I want. It's a perk. I wanted to be here to welcome you to hell."

Azazel looked around, seeing a lot of...well, nothing. No screams, no torture...it didn't look like the hell he'd come to know and love.

"This is your own special hell," Jess said cheerfully, reading his mind. "You were the schemer, Azazel, the thinker with your great plans to rule the world. Here you will do nothing _but_ think for eternity. You will be locked inside a box with only your thoughts, unable to speak or move. You won't be able to find ways to pass the time...because there _is_ no time."

She threw her head back and laughed, blond hair bobbing on her shoulders. "This is _forever._"

Azazel smirked at her, not attempting to conceal his hatred. "Then I will think often," he said, "of the way you cried and begged when I sliced you open."

Jess shrugged, unfazed. "I was only human, a limitation I no longer experience. I should thank you for that, Demon. If you'd only thought to keep me alive, you could have used me against Sam. There was very little he wouldn't have done to save me." Her eyes sparkled with amusement. "You killed me too quickly...one of many failures you will have eternity to think about."

"Bitch," Azazel said, resorting to a human term.

Jess laughed. "You slashed my stomach and burned me on the ceiling...you think you can hurt me now with words? I can leave this place, Demon, and you cannot. I can watch Sam destroy the army you worked so long to build."

"Ah, yes, Sam." Azazel's voice took on a gloating edge. "Your beloved. He is tainted, Jessica Moore. My death does not change what I did to him. He will fall into darkness, and you will be unable to do anything but watch. The very day that his brother faces the torment of hell, Sam will become what I meant him to be."

"He will not," Jess said with absolute certainty. "Dean will save Sam, and Sam will save Dean. It was always meant to be this way, and you could never change it. They will save each other, and together they will save the world."

Azazel laughed humorlessly. "Has death given you precognition, Human?"

"No," she said. "But I know Someone who has always had it." She smiled at Azazel again, wide and innocent, and then spoke the last words he would ever hear. "Goodbye, Demon."

She vanished, and eternity began.

**(end)**


	10. Ten Ways Dean Might Have Died

**title:** Ten Ways Dean Might Have Died  
**author:** katriel1987  
**spoilers:** 3.11 Mystery Spot  
**summary:** Sam will _never_ look at bunnies the same way again.  
**category:** gen; humor with a touch of angst  
**word count:** 140

- - - -

**-1-**

He didn't know she had a boyfriend. Honest.

**-2-**

"Dude, it's just like those trees we used to climb at Pastor Jim's!"

(For the record, Sam _told_ him not to.)

**-3-**

Who would've guessed? Broward County had a zoo. With tigers.

**-4-**

And monkeys.

(You really don't want to know.)

**-5-**

"Aw, look, Sammy! It's a kitten!"

**-6-**

Plane crash.

(He wasn't _in_ the plane. He was just standing where it landed.)

**-7-**

Drowned.

In a mud puddle.

**-8-**

He's not even _allergic_ to peanuts.

Right?

**-9-**

Sam will _never_ look at bunnies the same way again.

**-10-**

"Sam, 's the car okay?" Dean slurred.

Sam blinked, blinked again. His eyes burned. "The car's fine, Dean," he said, looking at the tangle of sharp-edged metal surrounding his brother.

"Good." Dean smiled a little as his eyes slid closed. "Good."

**-end-**


	11. cat and mouse

**title:** cat and mouse  
**summary:** he's not accustomed to being the mouse.  
**category:** gen  
**word count:** 225  
**notes:** look! I added twenty words that explain things! well, kinda.

- - - -

Sam took a careful step, trying to gauge the ground beneath his foot, feel for anything that might crack and give away his position. His boot sank into soft dead grass and fallen leaves, and he blew out a silent breath.

It had to be nearing midnight by now, but the air itself was glowing gently, moonlight filtering down, threading out through the soft fog. Sam could just make out the disc of almost-full moon through the thin clouds overhead. In daylight he'd seen a range of hills to the south, hunched and solid like the backs of sleeping giants, but the fog hid them now.

Sam willed his heartbeat silent and took another measured step, holding back his full weight until he'd felt out the new ground. God, this was weird. He'd played cat and mouse a million times over the years, but he wasn't accustomed to being the mouse.

Another step, his fingers brushing the damp bark of a juniper tree, its cedary smell perfuming the cold air. Looking up, he could see its limbs disappearing into the mist like crooked snakes. Thought of climbing, but that would leave him cornered, nowhere to go.

Another step, and cool metal nudged gently at the base of his skull. There'd been no sound.

"Hi, Sammy," Dean's voice said softly, and Sam closed his eyes.

- - - -

_Dean sold his soul to the Crossroads Demon._

_She never said anything about what would happen to his body._

_- - - -_

**(end)**


	12. your hope has burned with time

**title:** your hope has burned with time**  
author:** katriel1987  
**rating:** PG  
**characters:** Dean, Castiel  
**spoilers:** 4.01 Lazarus Rising**  
category: **Gen, AU, apocafic  
**word count:** 200  
**disclaimer:** Not mine; not getting paid; I'm just playing with them.  
**summary:** He says, _I pulled you from Perdition, but it was too late._

_

* * *

_On September 18, 2008, Dean Winchester wakes up in his grave and crawls out of darkness into baking heat. The sky is orange overhead, and the air smells of sulfur. For a moment he thinks he's still in hell.

A blue-eyed man meets Dean there, inside the circle of fallen trees. He says he's an angel. He says, _I'm sorry,_ and Dean believes that at least, because he looks so sad. He says, _I pulled you from Perdition, but it was too late._

_Sam?_ Dean says, as ash falls like rain.

Castiel shakes his head. _It wasn't him. He tried to stop it. He almost did._

Dean's eyes burn, from fumes or tears. He turns to his grave, thinks about crawling back into it, hiding beneath slimy earthworms and soil that hasn't yet burned dry.

_He isn't dead,_ Castiel says. _I can show you where he is._

Dean turns back to him. _Is it over? This, the world, the war... is it lost?_

Castiel is silent for a moment. Falling ash outlines the invisible curves of his wings.

_I don't know,_ he says. _Perhaps. But as long as there is one left to fight..._

Dean nods.

_Take me to Sam._

_

* * *

_**end**


	13. from hell

**title:** from hell  
**words:** 100  
**spoilers:** through 3.16 _No Rest for the Wicked._ AU from that point. sort of an alternate take on chapter 12, _your hope has burned with time._**  
warnings:** dark  
**notes:** I've been trying not to be in love with Show anymore, but fandom keeps dragging me back in. *attempts to beat fandom off with a stick*

* * *

Dean crawls out of hell into bright daylight, still smeared with the blood of souls he dismembered on his way out. He curls his fingers into soft grass and rolls over to stare up at a brilliant blue sky.

He can feel the coal burning where his eyes once were. A million times they unraveled him from the inside, and knit him back together so they could begin again. They left tangles every time, twisted threads that multiplied until he was one of them.

Maybe twenty years have passed up here, or two hundred. Doesn't matter, really.

It was enough.

* * *

**end**


End file.
